Free Terminal (A Lomax & Biggs Mystery Book 5) by Marshall Karp

executive to our Crimes To Solve list.”
    “The mayor is going to tear us a new one,” Kilcullen scowled, the ugliness of his political obligations fouling his normally engaging Irish-cop smile. “Give me the good news.”
    “That was the good news,” I said. “We just picked up a traffic accident fatality from West LA. Eli did the autopsy, and he thinks it may not be as accidental as it looks.”
    “Who gives a shit?” Kilcullen snapped.
    “The victim worked for a drug company that paid Dr. Kraus six million dollars last year,” Terry said, “so Lomax and I decided a shit was definitely worth giving.”
    Six million dollars was all it took for the familiar Kilcullen twinkle to return to his eyes.
    “I’m listening,” he said, plucking a shriveled carrot from thecup. He took a bite, tossed the rest in the wastebasket, then sat back and listened without uttering a word until we got him up to speed.
    “The fact that Yancy’s company was paying Kraus to pimp their drugs only confirms that the two victims were in cahoots,” he said when we were done. “But lots of docs take payoffs from drug companies. Where’s the motive for killing them? And if there is one, who’s behind it?”
    “We don’t have a clue, boss, but there’s a good chance Bruce Bower knows,” I said. “We’re going to pay him a visit and ask him some questions.”
    “Bad idea,” he said. “If a couple of new cops show up and grill him about a traffic accident he thinks was wrapped up weeks ago, he’ll know he’s under suspicion.”
    “We’re not going to say a word about Yancy,” I said. “As far as Bower knows, that’s not even on our radar. Our cover story is that we’re doing some follow-up work on the Kraus murder, and we’re contacting everyone Cal Bernstein called over the past few months. We have no idea if we’ll get anything from him, but since we don’t have enough evidence for a search warrant, we figure it’s worth a shot.”
    Kilcullen responded with half a frown and zero recognition of the fact that we were one step ahead of him. “I don’t know if questioning him is the best way to go,” he said. “Why don’t I call Mel Berger at the mayor’s office and have him find us a judge who will issue a warrant as a favor?”
    “Fuck Mel Berger,” Terry said. “The last time you called him for a favor he never let us forget it. Do you want to call him again and tell him you can’t get the job done without his muscle?”
    “Terry’s right,” I said. “If Bower thinks he’s one of dozens of people we’re crossing off our list, he’s not going to suspect anything, and he’s not going to panic.”
    “Don’t worry about it, boss,” Terry said. “I promise I’ll use every ounce of finesse I have in my body.”
    “They pay me to worry, Biggs. And for the record, you’ve got all the finesse of a rutting bull moose. Let Lomax do the talking, because all you have to do is spook this guy once, and you’ll never find the smoking gun.”
    “Point well taken,” Terry said. “And for the record, we’re looking for a smoking nine-iron.”

CHAPTER 19
    THE BOWERS LIVED in Brentwood, which would normally put them a notch or two above the Bernsteins on the socio-economic food chain. But that was offset by the fact that their house was just off Sepulveda, where the noise and the fumes of the 405 freeway made it one of the least desirable areas of their affluent zip code.
    “According to the accident report, they were driving from here to Century City to get ice cream,” Terry said as soon as he parked in front of their one-story bungalow on Homedale Street. “I can understand making a forty-minute round trip to score weed, but who the hell drives that far for raspberry ripple?”
    “Great question,” I said. “That should be at the top of the list of things you don’t ask them.”
    “I know the rules, Mike. I’m just pointing out the obvious.”
    “And to quote a sage Irish philosopher, you point